'I'm so fucking tired.' It's early, early enough that my room is still dark - even a smidge of sun drastically increases the visibility in here. Aunt Petunia always complains about the house being "east-facing" and how the sun always wakes her up because she's "such a light sleeper", but I don't think she deserves an opinion on this. At least she has curtains. The cloth in front of the bars has been left to the merciless care of the moths for longer than the Dursleys have even lived here.
The sun's goddamn bright.
I feel kind of guilty for calling it a shithole, but I'm not wrong. The Dursleys are full of crap if they expect me to believe that I need to pay them back for living here; they have more than enough to care for two children equally, seeing as they literally give Dudley everything twice over. Last year they gave him two cakes. This year, three - one of the cakes was slightly smaller than the other, so Aunt had to run to the store to get him to stop screaming. He would probably make a good vocalist for a rock band, he's loud enough for it.
There's a sharp rap on my door, and Aunt Petunia shrieking about my chores. My leg jerked and I hit my foot loudly against the bedpost, I hissed, that's going to bruise later.
"You better not be breaking things in there, boy, we won't be replacing them. Hurry up and get up, stop being lazy. Are you even listening to me?" Her voice rose an octave, and she knocked again, harshly. I laid still for a moment, bemoaning fate, before replying. I don't care if it's been hours since I woke up, it's still way too early for this. I glared at the locked door.
"I'm getting up." I have to shout, almost, to be audible through the door. I guess not being able to hear my screams makes up for a little bit of being forced to be decent human beings. This doesn't stop Uncle from shouting at me to shut up every night. I'm almost certain that he doesn't actually know if I'm awake or not, and just yells anyway because he can. It would make sense. He really needs help for his anger issues, turning that colour can't be healthy. Or maybe not, I wouldn't be upset if he kicked the bucket, and sometimes I'm not even there and he gets himself worked up.
"You had better be, boy. If you're still lounging around in five minutes, I'm locking you outside for the day. Get up." She spat, unlocking the latches on the other side of the door. Honestly, it's not much of a threat anymore, what with Hedwig roughing it up in the wild, and any important belongings on me at all times. At most, I'd worry about where to sleep, but Aunt Petunia can't pull that stunt again after the police officers brought me back from the park. She isn't willing to experience the embarrassment of her "insane nephew" running out of the house at night and taking up space on benches. We would have a social worker already, if it weren't for the local police around here thinking that every teenager is on drugs and attention-seeking, or would take drugs at the first opportunity they got. We don't even live in a bad neighbourhood. Too many gossipers and stuck up old ladies for any rumours like that to be kept secret.
Stretching down the side of the bed, I caught my fingers against fabric, and pulled up a discarded off-white t-shirt. Most of my clothes had been pilfered from the lost and found at my old primary school, Aunt Petunia dragging me by the wrist there one day after school. Her grip is like a vice, I couldn't break out of it even if I tried - at least she never did more than dig her fingernails into my hand. The brittle nails are deceptively sharp. Most of the clothes were puffy coats with those faux fur hoods, thin raincoats, or forgotten P.E. kits. The bins were sat in a corridor, so Aunt felt no shame in stuffing whatever she could find into a bin bag she made me hold. Some of the things still fit, though, because they've been thoroughly used, but that might just be because they've been fully stretched out. The coats made for good bedding when it got cold, lined with soft fabric and filled with actual feathers like a small pillow.
I also got Dudley's hand-me-downs, they were always made of surprisingly nice fabric. Most of the recent ones wouldn't fit me even if I wore it like a dress and used a belt over the top, but the older clothes were good enough. I also used to use the larger shirts and jackets for extra bedding. Compared to the cupboard this room is a lot warmer in the summer, and winter isn't a problem anymore, so I haven't had to do that for a while now. The only useful hand-me-downs right now are the plethora of rejected shoes - soles ripped from the body; holes worn into the top; fairly pristine but way too narrow to wear without pinching your toes. I'd be surprised Aunt Petunia would let me use them, but she always gets a pinched look on her face at the idea of chucking out another set of pyjamas. In my room, it's like the phrase: out of sight, out of mind. It's not like any of my clothes really fit, anyway. I have to wear three pairs of socks to keep the trainers I'm using now from slipping.
The handle of the door screeches as I turn it and step past into the hallway. There used to be a small hole drilled below the knob, where the old lock used to be, but was removed after Uncle decided to move me upstairs - the same as the cupboard door. This time, however, he pulled out the hammer and boards again, and covered it up on the outside - he seems fond of that method. It's probably due to some "freakish" thing I did, or them not wanting me to peep out of the hole, or something. That might be because of them catching Dudley and I eavesdropping, though, now that I think about it.
They're always ushering sweet Dudders out of the room when it involves magic, don't want it to taint their little boy. Doesn't stop Dudley from trading snacks to see my textbooks. I've made an entire stash of sweets and cakes under my bed, it's great.
The carpet outside the room always feels nice against my feet; downstairs has floorboards and the carpet inside the room had to be torn up due to stains and holes, so was never replaced. I would honestly say that the carpet was my favourite part of the house, being a nice pale blue. It's the only part of the decor that isn't beige or off-white or cream. I'd assume it was from the previous owners if I didn't know that the old carpet was a pale, dusty grey (Uncle made me help with pulling up the moth-bitten mat.)
From around the corner, I heard Aunt loading laundry into the washing machine - she's always restless around the house, touching up small things here and there, or snapping at me for not working quick enough. The house always has to look pristine in case one of the neighbours peeks in and finds something to gossip about. It drove Aunt up the wall having to listen about Uncle's breakdown with the hammer and the owls. I've heard more than one passing remark about the mailman having to give us letters through the window, when my Aunt hosts their get-togethers; she's part of a gossip circle disguised as a knitting club, they never do any actual knitting, despite bringing baskets of yarn every time. Sometimes I get told to fill up the teapot, or bring a tin of biscuits - most of them ignore me entirely. I usually sit at the top of the stairs, or in the front garden outside the window, and listen in - it's interesting, I can kind of understand why people would want to read those magazines that are filled with stuff like this.
Uncle and Dudley are usually out of the house when the meetings happen, meaning I could leave the cupboard and sit at the table, which is nice. I usually don't get to leave my room when Uncle Vernon is home, because he'll shout at me if he sees me and I'm not doing chores. Dudley doesn't care if I'm there, when he's not being annoying and messing with me for no reason. He's mellowed out a lot since starting at Smeltings - maybe he's actually maturing.
The bathroom floor is fully tiled, with small white tiles, like the bottom of a swimming pool I went to with the school for lessons. Aunt doesn't like it if I spend too long in here, in case I waste the water, or do something funny, or burn the house down, or something. They come up with a lot of excuses to be pissy with me.
I've lived in this house for my entire life and they still don't trust me with shit. I guess it's because they don't want my magic to "taint" anything. I'd say Aunt Petunia is already tainted, if her sister was a witch - she's got equal chance to have someone magical born in her bloodline.
I thought it was genes that caused magic, I'm not sure on the science. They don't teach biology at Hogwarts, and it seems more primitive than normal London, but I haven't seen much of the magical world. Hermione has told me about magical libraries in other countries, so I'd assume they would have research facilities too.
I turned on the tap, and took my toothbrush out of my pocket. Going over what I came in here for, I put my fingers behind the cabinet door and grabbed at the toothpaste. Aunt wouldn't give me enough time to wash today, but I could towel myself down if I were quick.